


My Sweetest Downfall

by luna_sol



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_sol/pseuds/luna_sol
Summary: Napoleon and Illya both prefer the gentle, sweet mornings they share, but they'll never tell each other that.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 79





	My Sweetest Downfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dedicate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicate/gifts).



> For the lovely dedicate, to whom I still owe a ~~[redacted amount]~~ of fics. Here's the first! Delivered before CNY and all, look at me go.

Illya prefers morning sex - looks forward to it, would even go so far as to say it is the highlight of his day, if nothing else than because it’s gentle and lazy. It doesn’t feel like they’re rushing towards a finish line, it doesn’t feel like an obligation, it doesn’t feel like he’s just a convenient body. It feels like Napoleon is actually present with him in a way that Illya can’t be sure of during the night.

Illya can deal with the way Napoleon barely allows himself to be prepped before sinking down and riding Illya like his own personal horse. Illya can deal with the way that Napoleon takes the lead on rare occasions - prepping Illya with a generous amount of lube, finding his prostate with pinpoint accuracy, and fucking him until he is speechless. (Illya comes too quickly either way, unable to help the way his body responds to Napoleon.)

Illya can deal with all the frantic, hurried sex at night time if he gets Napoleon the next morning, half-awake and _soft_. Kissing Illya’s shoulders, mouthing his collarbone, scraping his teeth across the tendons of Illya’s neck - sucking transient bruises onto his skin but branding his very _soul_. Wet fingers caress his entrance, always waiting for Illya's assent first before insinuating themselves inside slowly, as if they’ve always been a part of Illya and not an intrusion. One finger turning into two, turning into three; there’s so much lubricant sometimes that Illya is surprised that he’s not always loose and gaping. 

Then, Napoleon fills him - a slow, inexorable pressure that rends Illya’s composure to pieces. And Napoleon never has him beg, instead rolling his hips _just right_ and murmuring sweet nothings into Illya’s ears. Things like, “darling, you feel exquisite,” or “you’ll be the death of me, Peril,” followed by more kisses, until Illya shakes apart in his thief’s hands and all Napoleon does is press even closer to Illya, as if he wants to burrow inside and possess Illya’s very _being_. (Illya would let him.)

He ignores the overstimulation, ignores the sensation of **too much** and the way his body quakes until Napoleon spends inside him, with a murmur of “ _Illya_.” His entire attention is always on Napoleon's face - the way he groans and seems to splinter apart, rapturous and languid at the same time. Illya drinks in the sight, until hooded eyes blink open slowly to look directly at him. 

Gentle lips meet his in kisses that linger, soothing hands roam his body easing tension that Illya wasn’t even aware of having, and more importantly, Napoleon continues to whisper his name - thick with sleep and something close to affection in the curve of his lips.

The morning-afters are sacrosanct, where Illya can pretend - even momentarily - that Cowboy returns his affections. He can sometimes even delay Napoleon’s quest to clean them both up - because he knows that _this_ is when it’ll be over: when Napoleon comes back with cloth in hand, cool and indifferent mask in place as he wipes Illya down and checks him for injury. Illya lets him, because it means Napoleon touching him for just that little while longer. 

Napoleon may be courteous after, may even offer him breakfast, but there’s nothing sweet or tender about his actions, merely something perfunctory. Napoleon will never allow him to stay no matter how much Illya wants to. (And Illya shudders with _longing_ that he's long-since learned to suppress.)

It’s better that he leaves than outstays his welcome. At least this way, he can come back. Mornings just end too quickly for his tastes.

\--

Napoleon loves the mornings. Peril is surprisingly pliant and open to being fucked slowly in the morning. Not to say that the evening sex is bad at all, but it’s occasionally a little dull. So Napoleon finds ways to make it more memorable, rough even: the gritty feel of penetration with just a dab of lube to ease the way, the way it burns - Peril is **very** well-proportioned, but most of all, the reminders left on his skin in bruises and bites. If Napoleon is very lucky, the marks that Peril gives him will remain until their next rendezvous.

He is keenly aware that Peril doesn’t prefer the same treatment, and he would never hurt the Russian more than is welcome, especially not in such a base manner. Despite the care Napoleon puts into prepping him at night, Illya is rarely emotive. In the mornings, however, Napoleon can kiss Illya just as he wishes and they’re always returned with equal fervour. He responds to Napoleon’s every touch as if _starved_ , with none of his usual inhibitions. 

Illya is always so eager in the mornings and Napoleon makes sure to open him carefully, his acceptance a precious gift. The way Illya clenches around him after his own orgasm, and the little whimpers that he makes, unravels Napoleon completely. No art he's ever seen or stolen could ever compare to the masterpiece that is Illya in the throes of passion. 

Napoleon comes undone with a gasp of Illya’s name - and Illya's never commented, never told him to stop using it, never stormed off in a rage - so Napoleon keeps using it. He expresses his gratitude in the language he knows best, thanking Illya with lingering touches and soft kisses as he winds them both down from orgasm and Illya never objects.

Much as he’d like to stay in this moment forever, Napoleon does try his best not to take advantage of the ones that he cares for. He is brisk in getting out of bed to fetch a warm washcloth - it would be ill-mannered of him not to take care of his partners’ comfort. (He does very much enjoy the few occasions where Illya demands more kisses. It would take a stronger man than Napoleon to deny him.)

It is only after he enters Peril’s line of sight again with the cloth in hand that Peril tenses, just the faintest line in his shoulders and neck, but Napoleon has been working with him for long enough to know that Illya is uncomfortable. Napoleon tries to keep the clean-up as clinical and quick as possible, though he does also give in to the desire to check that he hasn’t been too rough and wanting - Peril takes that with enough grace.

He often hears Peril’s exhale of relief when he steps away to dispose of the cloth. He straightens a little when he turns around to face Peril again, mask more firmly in place, and offers breakfast. There’s no reason not to be a gentleman even if his partner is itching to leave.

Half the time, Illya will take him up on the offer of breakfast and sit across from Napoleon in the kitchen, watching him intently with a cup of coffee in hand. Other times, Illya declines, dressing as if his lovely ass is on fire and he couldn’t spare a moment longer. But regardless of choice, he **always** looks back at Napoleon right before he heads out the door, expression inscrutable and the faintest of tremors in his hands.

And Napoleon lets him go, because there’s no point in keeping someone who obviously doesn’t want to be kept. It’s a pity mornings don’t last longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love <3  
> Please let me know if I'm missing any tags or warnings. Thanks for reading~


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